Tell Us
By Jada Yee
Tell us about the leaves,
the outspread fire before your eyes,
the blanket of fall above your precious heads.
Tell us that June and September
wished you both “happy birthday” on time.
Tell us that it hasn’t been too long
since two human arms gently came around you.
Tell us that these past few days have found you
smiling twice more than you’ve frowned.
Tell us how well you’re doing.
None of us knew that distance and time
would finalize goodbyes and frighten our hellos.
Twenty-some years ago, we were youthful and resilient;
too young to be paralyzed by fear; small enough
to be balanced on father’s dancing feet;
to be cradled in mother’s loving arms.
Each day was a chapter we all read together.
When the leaves finally give themselves up to Fall,
there is a sunset island floating in every tree, until it’s time
for the honey orange leaves to move along.
Tell us again how a desert winter is like a perfect spring.
Tell us again that you still love each other.
Tell us again that your lives matter just as much as ours.
Let’s convince each other that nothing has changed.
Let’s rely on the foundation of candle flames;
ones we thought were swaying with the song of celebration,
when really, they were writhing in pain,
trying to twist away from our unspoken heartache.
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